One For The Angels
by Swallows Fly as Free as a Bird
Summary: (Based off Death in Season 1: Episode 2) Claire Hartley was a typical New Yorker. However how normal is her life when she has crossed paths with Death many times- and she's never seen him. Light Death/OC one-sided


_One For The Angels _

Based off the character of Death in Season 1: Episode 2 "One for the Angels"

* * *

It was just another day in New York City. The city came alive with the shrieks of the cars halting to a abrupt stop, the sharp shouts in aggression and frustration, and above all of it, there was the soft, delicate pitter-patter of the rain onto the wet pavement. Nothing was peculiar, odd, or too special about that day. Except a woman among the crowd of unknown faces, who always made her daily commune to and fro the subway stations. She was a typical New Yorker with a not so average life. She was the night-shift nurse at the local city hospital and the volunteer caretaker of the orphanage she came from. Always busy, she never realized in her lifetime that she would experience so many run-ins with Death himself.

The first incident was when she was just starting as a nurse, four years ago. She was just twenty one years old, a bachelor's degree in hand and a dream to help others. She was another fresh face full of youth and a curious- almost naive- glimmer in her hazel eyes. However over the years, she managed to keep a good head on her shoulders and questioned everything around her. She was kindhearted, helpful, and energetic: a woman who won the hearts of all she had contact with. Having no blood relatives she knew of, she found a family in the patients she cared for- thats when he saw her.

Her life had death appear many times, but as a dutiful nurse, she wished to prevent the inevitable. He never missed an appointment, and it was only a select few that managed to escape his grasp or captivate him. He only kept a handful of stories and names in his memory, those select ones that stood out above the various, many others.

Her name was Claire Hartley, and she was the nurse that would have a path entwined with death and also hope. One should never forget the hope in one's life, for what life would it be if hope wasn't there?

* * *

Mr. Connor Gene was a balding eighty year old man of wrinkled pale skin that were etched into his body like a story being told with every crevice. He always had something to say or recall, his weary blue eyes would sometimes maintain a hold and flash with emotion when he retold a story of the War he served. World War II, a proud veteran of the United States Airforce. A simple man with a open heart, he treated Claire as if she was his own.

"Claire...!" He shot forward from his bed and hollered for her assistance, his voice cracking as he began to cough violently. He was still waving his arm for her, hoping maybe she could notice his situation from across the whitewashed hall. There were soft hurried steps against the tiles when she suddenly appeared at his his doorframe. She took a step towards him, her face full of concern towards her fatherly figure. However, he shook his head as he coughed to almost reassure her not to worry.

Instead, he desperately shook his hand away from him to the small black and white television across from him. Nevertheless she rushed to his side and checked the medical machines immediately for any peculiar spikes in heart pressure to cause any concern. He used his free hand to slam into his chest and finished the coughing fit with a gasp for breath that shakily entered his lungs.

"Oh Claire, please lower the volume of that damn television, won't you?" His voice softened into a croak of frustrated pleading, his body still recovering from his recent coughing fit as he struggled to find his words. She soothed the stressed elder by rubbing small circles into his back before gently setting him back into his warm bed and chuckling silently to herself about his request.

"Claire?" She smiled and took his hand in hers when he called for her again, patting it gently in sympathy for the veteran. Concerned now, Mr. Gene frowned deeply and narrowed his eyes suspiciously for a moment.

"Mr. Gene, its been on without volume the whole time." He shut his eyes in a puzzled expression, rubbing his chin for a moment in thought for any recollection of lowering the volume when she sighed sadly. He opened his eyes to see her gazing away to the screen, flashing with the cover story of the day's noon shooting in New Jersey- three dead.

"Oh, really?" He mumbled quietly and she woke from her reverie to his tired blue eyes.

"Yes Mr. Gene. Please do get some rest, don't concern yourself with bad news." He chuckled heartily and let out a small, muffled coughing fit for a moment before she perked up and frowned in worry. He curtly shook his head slowly with a small grin of amusement when she shut the television off.

"The news is nothing but bad news, Claire." The brunette nodded in solemn agreement, it seemed true to the times. He was born eighty years ago and he still understood what it meant to live on this world. In this time period maybe it was more modern, yet very similar in some aspects.

It was a cause of concern for her because of how fast technology was evolving and how disconnected the world had become, the people she's grown to love couldn't understand those issues now. The patients of the west wing couldn't understand because their lives were already full and accomplished, what happened in recent wars and times shouldn't concern them anymore. Saddened with her thoughts, she turned to leave the veteran alone for his much needed rest and he shut his eyes.

That's when he arrived. Black notepad and pencil in hand, expressionless and efficient, true to his nature. He sat in the seat at the foot of his bed, ticking off a couple things in his notepad ominously in silence. His eyes darted up to the sleeping patient, his latest appointment and he cleared his throat.

"Connor Jack Gene, age 80." The voice was so unreceptive and unfeeling, almost stepping away from the words it was saying in despondency. However, it was also soothingly smooth and calm at the same time, experienced with his words to remain patient. Mr. Gene's eyes fluttered open as he stared up to the ceiling, hoping to hear the voice speak again and awaken something from within. He waited a few moments, gazing idly in contemplation and curiosity before a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. He saw a figure move to the window at his left side and peer out to the illuminated buildings of New York with grim fascination.

"Born in Brooklyn, New York, correct?" Mr. Gene paused and took a moment to allow what the figure was saying to sink in before he could respond.

"Yes..." He realized what was happening and sat up, training his eyes into the black suit of the figure. The lights from the window casted some visibility, however he still remained faceless. A voice without a face, a verdict without a judge. All he saw was the suit and hands flip through his notepad, calloused and young. Mr. Gene began to wonder if he was a lawyer, but at this hour? Claire didn't tell him of any expecting visitors. "Who are you? A lawyer?"

"Born to Margaret Klein of Trenton, New Jersey and Henry Michaels of Nashville, Tennessee?" He disregarded Mr. Gene's question and watched through the shadows as the veteran nodded suspiciously.

"This ain't a test or anything right? If it is I want an explanation mister. I'll call the nurse." Expected, a threat. Must all of them be so naive?

"No, Mr. Gene, this is something else. We shall talk about your immediate departure." The veteran beamed through the darkness, was he finally going to be able to leave the hospital without ailment? The figure pinched the bridge of his nose when he realized Mr. Gene's reaction was for something else entirely. The veteran wanted to live, that wasn't his job.

"I'll be let go? Really? Finally! 'Bout time son!" Mr. Gene wished he could see through the veil of shadows the young man was as he stood adjacent the window. He wanted to shake his hand and thank him, the proudest feeling washing over him as he realized he can finally return home. Home to his family, his friends, return to his life.

"Oh no Mr. Gene, I mean something else _entirely_. I am here to ensure your departure at 4 A.M. tomorrow morning, in your sleep, which I know you shall have no complaints about. You drift away into oblivion, Mr. Gene. Peacefully." The veteran's heart sank and seized with fear, the color draining from his face as he gripped the bed's side rails in horror.

"Departure!?" He shrieked in indignation, his mouth agape as his throat burned and itched at the sound. He began to cough violently, which drowned out the gasp and incoming steps of the nurse at his doorframe once again.

"Mr. Gene?" Claire questioned softly and flicked the lights on, stepping inside and glancing over to the open windowsill. The veteran was still mortified, pointing to the patient suited figure beside the window.

"Him! He told me I will depart!"

"Mr. Gene, she can't see me." He answered tiredly, watching as the nurse glanced over to him confusedly and ask what every other always asked.

"What figure?"

"Him! The suited man! With black hair and brown eyes-" He wheezed, his pupils dilated and he went quiet when the man flicked his wrist and killed the sunflower at the windowpane. His eyes widened when he realized what the suited man was, and Claire only stared to him and the sunflower with confusion and concern. "Oh Lord. No. Tell me it's not true." He shakily said in a hushed prayer under his breath.

"The sunflower," she sighed and retrieved the vase, walking straight through the gentleman which proved the veteran's worst fears. It was him. He was real. "I'll get you a new one, not to worry."

"O-o-okay." She blinked and turned to face Mr. Gene, a puzzle expression on her face as the figure behind her began to nod slowly. The veteran returned the nod, they had much to discuss now. She turned away and faced the suited figure, which she couldn't see, but he saw her. The golden hazel pools stared into his despondent brown eyes with curiosity to see what Mr. Gene saw, to no avail. Her delicate features furrowed her eyebrows in frustration after a moment and her full pink lips turned downward in a slight frown as she pulled back wisps of brunette hair over her ear. She couldn't see him.

"Claire." Mr. Gene began shakily and waved the brunette over with a slight protective glare towards the figure- which she thought was odd. "Come here please." She nodded and placed the vase back onto the windowpane beside the figure before coming to the veteran's side dutifully.

"Yes?"

'_You don't see him.'_ He thought tiredly and took her soft hand in his, calming her like she did earlier for him before explaining.

"Please read to me. Please?" She chuckled in delight. The sound was lovely and heartfelt, instantly warming the veteran's heart and piqued the interest of the figure.

"Fine." A smile spread on her lips with a sincerity that comforted Mr. Gene. He was face to face with Death, Claire's presence soothed him. "What should I read?"

"Poetry." He wasn't a poetic man. He was a soldier of war, he had no time for books and knowledge. All he knew was all that he learned on the street, not schooling. The nurse was elated, being a major in literature, she was overjoyed at this.

"Any particular ones?" The figure had settled at the seat at the foot of the bed and rested his head on his chin, curious and amused.

"Ones about death." The nurse frowned at the word and he resisted glancing over to the figure himself, so comfortably nestled in his seat across from him. Seeing he was serious, she grew concerned again.

"Mr. Gene..."

"Please call me Connor." - _'Might as well_.' He thought bitterly and shot the figure a glance, staring into the eyes of his undertaker.

"Okay... Connor. Please, this isn't about the weird figure right?" The figure sighed at the comment, the veteran ignored it.

"No, no Claire. Please. Today..." He went silent as he mustered up the courage to face reality. "Is a very special, last day." She didn't catch the last part, nodding as she slipped her hands away from his and reached for her phone in her pocket. After a moment of searching in the small screen, she found what she was looking for.

"_And you as well must die. by Edna St. Vincent Millay._ I read this a lot when someone I loved dearly, my best friend, died last summer. It means a lot to me, and I sense that this day for you is special. So I shall share this with you, Connor." The speech settled something in his heart, a feeling of sorrow and happiness, peace and fear. The figure shut his notepad and leaned forward, hoping to hear every word of her poem in which the title itself held a sad irony. Death was captivated with her soft voice and firm words, a trait rarely seen nowadays. She was also very beautiful and had an aura around her that touched these people with joy. He even dared to forget about the business of his work, even if it was for just a moment.

_"And you as well must die, belovèd dust,_

_And all your beauty stand you in no stead;" _

He began to think about the war, and how much death he had experienced in his lifetime. He's been the causer of death, the bringer and carrier of death, it was a tool. A job. A duty that was for pride and country. It was nothing more than a weapon that was soon to turn on its user. He wondered about his war buddies, their names and faces flashing to mind as he found himself immersed in memories. Memories of loves come and gone, friendships formed and destroyed, the ones he's loved and found kinship in over his lifetime. His beloved died ten years ago, the so many faces of his friends and the faces of those he killed also reemerged from the darkness. How time has aged him, how time has made him forget. Now in the face of death, all he has is to remember the screams and laughter of enemies and allies.

_"This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,_

_This body of flame and steel, before the gust_

_Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,_

_Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead_

_Than the first leaf that fell, this wonder fled,_

_Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost."_

He's lost too many. He lost his commanding officer in Japan. He fought in the Pacific alongside the thousand others just like him, with death over their shoulder and wrapped around them like a jacket. A jacket of fears. He lost his best friend to a stray bullet in Iwo Jima. They shipped his body home with a letter, a generic letter sent to all the homes of the dead. He lost his 'little brother', a young private that took shelter under his wing and found himself in a minefield. His body was never recovered. The lost souls of the war, the soldiers that never did return home or receive the burial they deserved, what happened to them? Did they float on this Earth with longing, searching for a place to truly call home or did they find a special place in Heaven- rewarded for their sacrifices?

_"Nor shall my love avail you in your hour._

_In spite of all my love, you will arise_

_Upon that day and wander down the air_

_Obscurely as the unattended flower,_

_It mattering not how beautiful you were,_

_Or how belovèd above all else that dies."_

And here he was, at the crossroads of life and death, the summit of reality and fiction, with a decision to make. He couldn't fight what was written, he couldn't fight what was meant to be. He stared into the eyes of the young, suited man and gave him a confident nod. He didn't respond, but he understood. They shared no words, only a gesture and stare as the other came to terms with the inevitable. It was as if he agreed to his death in his own free will. He looked to the tearing brunette and felt forever indebted to her. She had done the impossible- he accepted the betrayal of the jacket of fears that protected him in a World War, the weapon and tool that had turned on him- and she still remained at his side despite the silent moments that ticked by. He unhooked the clasp of his necklace, a golden cross he's had since boyhood, and danced it between his fingers before fisting it and palming the cross until it left a mark into his hand.

"Thank you Claire." He smiled softly and shut his eyes one last time to drift asleep. He took her hand in his old, calloused ones and handed her the necklace as darkness swept him away to a dreamless sleep. The figure took note of the touching scene, burning the image of the crying nurse at the veteran's side into his selective memory as the golden cross gleamed in the light. That was the story of Mr. Gene. In which like Death said, at 4 exactly, he died peacefully in his sleep.


End file.
